


And I Hope That You'll Remember Me

by MoonQueen17640



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonQueen17640/pseuds/MoonQueen17640
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something was missing. Dean could feel the ghosting of lips over his own and hear the whispers of loving words in his ear, but the mysterious figure remained just out of his reach. It felt so far away, and yet more familiar than his own name. If he could only remember...</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Hope That You'll Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

> *This is a prompt fill for anonymous on Tumblr who asked: can u write aidean memory loss fic? something like dean & aid r together and dean takes a hecka lot of pics of aidan or draws/paints him but then theres an accident and he forgets and aidan leaves but dean keeps seeing this pics/ drawings of this guy and he just wants to know who it is.*
> 
> Kudos and feedback are SO appreciated. Thank you and enjoy :) <3
> 
> (The title comes from the hauntingly beautiful "I See Fire" by Ed Sheeran)

Dean had never had a nervous twitch before. He had always been in control of his movements, evaluating every situation and proceeding accordingly. He had never let his body stray so far from his control. Now he couldn’t stop. His hands continually jerked out away from him, almost as if they were longing for some contact with the hands of another person. If he didn’t know better, he might say that they were missing someone. Dean stared at the blank canvas before him, letting his eyes close for a moment to search the inner recesses of his mind for any artistic inspiration.

 _A flash of brown, the feel of silky hair, a deep-throated laugh, twinkling eyes, a soft caress._ Then nothing. When Dean opened his eyes he realized that his hand had already started moving, again completely out of his control. The strokes he made were sure and strong, coasting over the surface with clarity he didn’t know he possessed. When he looked up again, a face was staring back at him. Though abstract in its finer details, he could make out a pair of sparkling brown eyes and a beautiful smile framed by dark curls. The face looked so eerily familiar that Dean couldn’t help but reach out to stroke its paint-roughened cheeks. His hand twitched.

 

* * *

 

Wiping the sweat off of his face, Dean glanced at his surroundings while he waited to cross the street. The oppressive heat of New Zealand summer seemed to be never-ending and even small walks around the neighborhood left him gasping for air. When the light turned green, he went to place his foot forward and found himself frozen in place, looking in front of him at a massive trailer park. Signs informed him that they were part of the legendary Peter Jackson’s movie-making mecca, but Dean could have sworn he had been there before. He could see in his mind’s eye a blurry image, half out of focus: _tall lanky limbs folded around him, hot breath in his ear, a long brunet wig obscuring his vision, the hilt of a sword pressed in his hand._ Then nothing.

Startled, Dean stepped back to look at the expansive structures before him. They seemed so familiar, it was almost as if he could see the floor plan behind his eyes. Shrugging, he picked up the camera he always kept swinging from his neck. Slowly, he snapped a few pictures of the studios, smiling as he imagined his family’s reaction to the iconic buildings.

Later on that night when he was looking through the shots he had taken, one in particular caught his attention. From a wide angle it looked perfectly normal, a simple close-up picture of one of the trailers, but upon closer examination, he saw a lean body resting up against the door, his edges were blurred, and he seemed to fade away more and more the longer Dean stared at the photo. It was almost as though he were seeing a ghost. Again, his hand reached out, as if it were somehow searching for the touch of the apparition on the camera screen.

 

* * *

 

Nightmares had never plagued Dean before. He usually had the strength of will and mind to avoid their presence in his sleeping hours, though they were slowly becoming more and more common. Every few nights, he would wake up drenched in sweat and reaching out, as though looking for a soothing hand, or a comforting word from someone else. He would go then over to the coffee machine for liquid courage and find that he had made it black the day before, even though he despised black coffee. It was almost as though it was a reflex of his, to make it that way, as if it were for a guest or a friend coming over to visit. As if a vital piece were missing. Even once he added the requisite cream and sugar, it always felt barren and bland to his taste when once he had enjoyed its flavor. Suddenly _a whisper of a laugh reached his ears and he could have sworn he felt a pair of lips ghost over his._ All at once the coffee seemed infinitely appetizing.

Dean began noticing the presence of strange things: a bottle of Guinness beer (he preferred vodka) a pair of size eleven shoes (he was an eight) a prosthetic nose tip (that one he couldn’t even begin to try to rationalize) and a package of cigarettes (he had quit years ago). He had no idea where any of them had come from, and yet they felt so _right_ in his house. He didn’t have the heart to move them. He glanced over at the painting still sitting on his easel, of that impossible man who felt so familiar, and could have sworn he saw him wink. _He felt a murmur of his name on the wind, spoken in a lilting dialect,_ and then nothing. Again. That night Dean had no nightmares, though the muscles in his hand felt exhausted when he woke, almost as though they had been clenched around something all night long.

 

* * *

 

He was standing in his bedroom, staring at the made bed before him. He hadn’t slept in it for months. It had always felt wrong, like something very precious was missing. He had spent his nights on the couch downstairs, willing to deal with the body aches from contorting himself on the small surface so that he didn’t have to desecrate the seemingly sacred space in his room. He hadn’t been in his bedroom for months either. Standing there left a tingle down his spine, a feeling that things were coming together. Somehow the ghosts of memories that he had felt haunting him for weeks were connected in some way with that room. Somehow, his demons lived and played here. A soft breeze rustled through the curtains on the window and classical music began drifting through the room from one of the neighboring buildings. Suddenly, the world stopped. Suddenly, everything fell into place. Dean crumpled to the floor, holding his head in his shaking hands. _A flash of a pure white smile, dark curly hair, a loud booming laugh, silky olive skin, a deep Irish accent, lanky limbs, a whispered “Deano,” loving words, gentle kisses, shared caresses…. A soft breeze, classical music. The first night they’d made love. Small touches, harsh biting kisses. The first time he’d drawn him. Pressed up against the trailer, wigs tickling their noses. The first time they’d kissed. Bottles of Guinness and whispered promises. The first time they admitted their love. Clanging swords and fierce battle cries. The day they’d lost it all…._ “AIDAN!!!!!” Dean screamed, fighting to keep a hold of the precious memories. Frantically he looked around the room, spotting the glaring white of the hospital band placed on the bedside table. He could remember the pain of his fall, the set abuzz with ambulances and medical teams, fitful nights in the hospital, waking up with no memory of the last two years of his life, the feeling that something important, something SO IMPORTANT was missing from his life. He could remember Aidan.

When he grabbed his phone, his fingers knew exactly what buttons to push, and when the melodic Irish voice on the other end began crying when he recognized Dean’s, it felt like coming home. Two days later, Dean woke to six feet of lanky Irishman curled around him, and that night his hand twitched and was instantly engulfed by the warm hands of the love of his life. They never twitched again.


End file.
